


you're the only one who knows

by WeWalkADifferentPath



Series: can we call it a reunion if my heart's always been here? [2]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: (symptoms mentioned), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Light Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reunions, Sibling Bonding, siblings being siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-25 19:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWalkADifferentPath/pseuds/WeWalkADifferentPath
Summary: Ben finds Five in the library.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> set after the last installment of the series, but can be read as a stand-alone. all y'all gotta know is that it's set after the apocalypse is averted without time travel
> 
> this is not my best work and completely unedited but I just have to get it out of my face because it's done, you know? so I hope you like hot, steaming, self-indulgent garbage :)

Ben finds Five in the library. 

It’s bright when he steps in, light streaming through the clear upper windows and straining through the stained glass below. This is the first time that Ben’s been in the library in over a decade but it looks like nothing has changed. The thought is more comforting than it should be. Dust floats past his face, lazy and uninhibited-- too gentle for this house-- and it’s so beautiful and mesmerizing that he almost forgets what he’s doing here. 

Almost. Until a throat clears from behind the stack of books to the left and Five calls out, “Who’s there?”

And it should be so easy for Ben to open his mouth to call back, to say _it’s just me, don’t worry,_ but somehow the words-- all possible words-- get lodged in his throat. He’d thought that after Allison this would be easier, but with Five it’s just… different. Five hadn’t been there when Ben had died. 

The whole family may have lost Ben, but Ben had lost Five first. 

“I saw the light shift in the window,” Five’s saying. “Klaus, if that’s you again, I told you that I don’t have time for--”

And then Ben rounds the corner, and his first thought is _where did he get a butter knife from?_ followed closely by _is that a wagon??_ And then, _god, he’s so small._ Which, it’s not like he didn’t know that already; Ben has been around since Five’s come back. But something about having a solid body of his own drives the point home. Five is so, so much smaller than he should be, and this isn’t what it should feel like to stand next to him again. This isn’t what it would feel like to stand next to him again, if they’d grown up together like they should have. 

Ben feels sick.

“-- You’re not Klaus.”

Ben shakes his head. 

They stare at each other for a moment. Five clutches the butter knife tighter, twitches the book he’s holding in the other hand up toward his chest, as if he imagines that Ben will try to take it if he doesn’t. 

“Is Klaus here?” Five finally asks. He chances a glance behind him, lip curled in disgust, as if he thinks that he’ll find Klaus there, ready to jump out of a cake or something. _Surprise._

Ben shakes his head again, and at Five’s raised eyebrow, he shrugs. Klaus doesn’t need to be here for this anymore, hasn’t needed to be for a while, but it’s not like they keep Five up to date on their training so of course he wouldn’t know that. 

Five considers him for another moment. Then he seems to relent, lowering his knife. After a moment he sighs and tosses it into the back of the wagon with a clatter. “Huh,” he says. He folds his now empty hand into his pocket, then folds his face into his trademark expression. “And you want what from me?”

Ben blinks, taken off guard. That’s a question he didn’t expect he’d have to answer, somehow. What _does_ he want? Is he meant to want something? He hadn’t considered that maybe Five wouldn’t want to see him. 

Well, he had considered it, if he were being honest, but had hoped that he’d be wrong. 

So he shrugs again, feeling helpless next to this small, time-capsuled version of what once was his brother, but is now, he realizes suddenly, a fifty-something year old man who could’ve killed him with that butter knife and who probably _has_ killed people with that butter knife and who Ben knows absolutely nothing about. 

Five sighs when Ben doesn’t give him an answer, blowing air through his lips. “Fine. Then I suppose you’ll follow me?”

Ben nods. He’s not even sure what he’s agreeing to, really, and his legs are telling him to run, to get out of there, and this is maybe the first time ever that he actually begins to wish that he wasn’t tied to this stupid plane of reality because then he could just pop out of there and pretend that none of this had ever happened. 

But, he thinks, as he scrubs a building tear out of his eye when Five turns to grab the handle of his wagon, maybe this is okay too. All he really wants is to be near Five, right? So he’ll make the best of this. 

Except Ben’s an idiot, and he’s always been clumsy, and now he’s not used to having _feet that touch things,_ so the first step he takes he trips right over Five’s little wagon full of books and goes sprawling. 

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, catching himself on the edge of a shelf. It’s a wonder his survival instincts are still intact. But shit, what if he’d wrecked any of Five’s books? He looks up to check, heat flushing through his body, when he catches Five’s expression.

And then the handle of the wagon drops.

Five’s eyes are huge and watery and he’s frozen where he stands, mouth agape, edge of the wagon handle resting on his shoe. “Ben?” he whispers, and Ben has just enough time to note that everyone sure seems to like whispering his name now that he’s dead before he realizes what’s going on.

That was the first time he’d spoken, since he’d shown up. And the first time he’d touched anything. 

“Yeah.” It comes out sandpaper thin and rough but it’s audible, and that’s enough to make Five blink. 

“Shit. I thought you were just--” Five cuts himself off, waving his hand like he’s dismissing the words. He glances around the room absently as if searching for something and then shakes his head, turning to look Ben in the eye. His mouth is a line. Solemn. “I didn’t know. I should have known.”

“No, it’s okay, I should’ve, uhm, I should’ve said something. Sooner.” It’s not the first time that Ben has considered that maybe Klaus isn’t the only one who sometimes sees things-- sees people-- that aren’t really there. But now he feels the weight of that truth dawn on him, and the sadness that claws up his throat is enough to make him choke on it. 

“How-- how are you here?”

“Klaus and I have been practicing,” Ben offers. He pulls his arms across his chest, and the leather around his shoulders bunches and pulls uncomfortably, limiting his range of motion. “I can be solid now, without him in the room.”

Five steps forward. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, it’s really fucking you.”

“Language,” Ben whispers, and then he’s crying. He’s crying for _real,_ like a whole-ass child, standing in front of this stranger who is his brother and his arms itch to reach out, to _touch,_ to grab Five in a hug, but he’s not really sure if he’s allowed. He’s not sure what to do with himself, with this body that he’s allowed to have for these pockets of time that can’t possibly make up for everything that he’s lost. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says. The words are foolish, inadequate, but they’re all that’ll come out. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, blinking back the blurriness because he wants to see this. Wants to see Five-- his brother-- and god, why does this hurt so much? He’s had years to mourn. Weeks to get used to Five being back. To Five being different. This was a sealed wound. Wasn’t it? 

Five regards his tears, watches the movement of his sleeve as he scrubs furiously. There’s an understanding in his eyes that’s far too gentle and far too knowing not to reveal his age.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and pulls Ben into a hug. 

And it’s ridiculous, because Ben is two-solid-fucking-feet taller than Five, but somehow he’s the one being hugged. And he buries his face in Five’s hair and reminds himself to breath out through his mouth so he doesn’t get snot in it because he’s pretty sure even this nicer version of Five would never forgive him for that. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you passed,” Five says. “I should’ve been there.” 

“I’m sorry that I died when you were gone.” 

Five snorts. “Idiot,” he chides, pulling back to smack Ben on the arm. He shakes his head, staring down at his feet.

He looks guilty, and he shouldn't. He shouldn't.

Ben grins as something occurs to him to try, and as he speaks, something soft and light flutters into his chest and he wonders if this is the first time he's actually taken a breath since he died. “I know you are," he hedges, "but what am I?” 

It works. Five makes a guttural choking noise, rearing back in indignant shock like Ben had comes from the afterlife specifically to slap him in the face. “You- you can’t--” But then, miraculously, his face splits and he laughs. It's surprisingly high and soft but exactly as Ben remembers it. “I hate you. I absolutely hate you. I feel like you should know that.”

Ben ruffles his hair. “I love you too, baby bro.”

This time, when Five’s head snaps up in indignation, butter knife somehow having reappeared in his hand, Ben has the good sense to duck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the conversation.

Five swings the butter knife but doesn’t actually throw it, to Ben’s complete and utter delight and vindication. 

(He knew that Five loved him). 

But he also knows that he’s pushed an invisible line, expressing his own love aloud, so he regretfully makes some space between him and his brother anyways. 

Five needs a lot of space lately. Ben thinks he gets it. 

“You’re really fifty-eight, huh?” Ben muses, when he’s a sufficient few feet from the small assassin. Five rolls his eyes, shooting Ben a look like he’s disappointed in his predictability. 

“That’s what I said. Give or take.” 

“And you could’ve gutted me with that knife.” 

Five shrugs. He seems to appreciate the return to easy banter; he pulls on his typically bored expression, one hand pocketed with the knife, the other grabbing for another book off the shelf. Ben would think it was a random book for the way that Five doesn’t even look at it, if he didn’t know better. “I could’ve. Didn’t, obviously.”

Ben smiles, reading the _wouldn’t_ where Five won’t say it. “I appreciate that.” 

Five looks like he might actually crack a smile, or at least a smirk, and that's got to be some sort of record. He flips open the book, reading the first page absently while he speaks. “Keep that in mind though. And my age, for that matter. I’m nobody’s _baby_ anything.” 

“Yes, sir,” Ben says. He doesn't think he's ever heard the word 'baby' said with so much vehemence before. Then he flinches as something shifts in his atmosphere. _Shit,_ he’s flickering.“I won’t be corporeal for much longer. Klaus is faltering.”

Five’s eyes flick up from his book. He’s already on the second page, somehow. “Hmm.” 

The book is old, the kind of small hardcover that they sell in stacks in Farmer’s Markets, three for ten dollars. It’s a deep burgundy with gold lettering on the side, but as far as Ben can see, no title on the front. It’s exactly the kind of book that he would picture in Five’s hand; it’s exactly the kind of book that he _has_ pictured in Five’s hand, when he’s imagined drawing him all of these years that he’s been dead. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, or standing in the library with the light behind him, book in hand, a crinkle in between his eyebrows, that sure and cocky expression in his face not quite worn in yet. 

He’s missed being able to draw. He should ask Klaus for a pen and paper and some time alone, the next time they do this. 

“I’m gathering that you can physically manifest, without being in the same room as Klaus, for extended periods of time, but not forever. How long does it typically last?” 

“Not very long. Sometimes an hour or two. And I can’t get too far.”

“What about other related considerations? Are there variables that effect the length of time you’re able to appear, for example? I assume there must be conditions that optimize the effects of Klaus’s abilities.”

Ben just shrugs; he’s never really been comfortable with the obsessive sort of way that Five has always talked about their abilities. Especially now. Ben has been away from this house long enough-- away from the living long enough-- that sometimes he’s able to forget that at heart, their very existences were one giant experiment. 

Five never did, though. The difference is, Five’s never minded being an experiment, didn’t understand why the others cared so much. And he doesn’t notice Ben’s discomfort now, still talking rapidly, more to himself now than to Ben. 

“Why do you want to know?” Ben finally interrupts. Five glances back at him. 

“I need to know how long you’ll be able to retain corporeal form over the upcoming months.”

“For what?” Ben’s body itches under his coat; he’d forgotten he could feel too warm in sunlight. 

Five actually looks surprised to be asked. “I’m attempting to organize a list of book recommendations for you. I need to know how many should be on it.” 

And that--

Well, Ben hadn’t expected that. 

“A book list?”

Five drops another book in the wagon and turns to face him again, frowning as if it’s an inconvenience to be interrupted with questions. Or maybe he genuinely doesn’t understand why Ben is confused. “Do you not want one?” 

“I just--” Ben blinks. “I hadn’t considered you might want to give me one.” 

He realizes that he’s corporeal, visible, and that technically now there’s not much that separates him from any other living person for the hours that Klaus can give him. So sure, he supposes, it’s not that odd for someone to be thinking of something like that, something so _human._

It’s just… he’s been around for a pretty long time. Not from Five’s perspective, but generally. Thirteen years trailing Klaus. Over two of those thirteen years have been spent in his family home, around his siblings; a year and a half before Klaus left, six months since the apocalypse that wasn’t. And yet-- 

Well, he’s just not used to being acknowledged. But if he follows that thought too far, he knows that he might find a well of anger that he’s nowhere near ready to acknowledge. He wants to be happy with his siblings now, not resentful of what they’d-- of what he didn’t get to have. 

Five hasn’t acknowledged the half-question. His attention is still on dropping books in his cart, keeping up with his stream of murmurs that Ben is increasingly realizing isn’t meant for him. 

So Ben just… answers. “I would like one,” he says. “A book list. Please. But I don’t need to be corporeal to read.”

Five’s hand pauses in midair. “I won’t ask how that works.”

Yeah, Ben doesn’t know either. Books just seem to _exist_ wherever he is; once he’d asked Klaus about it when he’d been tripping on acid, hazy and panicked in this absolutely disgusting drug den, more as a distraction than anything. Klaus had suggested that maybe the culmination of every person who’d ever died clutching a book in their arms had stocked the supernatural plane with enough to fill a library. It’s the winning theory, for now. 

Maybe one day Ben will ask Five what he thinks. 

Something is alight inside of Ben’s chest, another feeling that he’d forgotten. Five had always respected him, before-- maybe he still could. Maybe this wouldn’t be their last conversation. 

Five stops walking suddenly, almost derailing Ben’s footing again. This time he shoots a terse, “careful, she’ll kill me if one of these books gets knocked out,” over his shoulder before he shoves the wagon under the nearest table. He plunks into one of the chairs with a sigh. 

“I don’t suppose that you have coffee in the ether?” 

Ben smiles. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “Wouldn’t have much use for it.” He gestures down at himself, hoping to convey the sense that his body is _empty._

Not that he’s ever had the chance to try to eat-- and hey, he could do that now too, couldn’t he? The thought is more terrifying than exciting. What if food tastes differently than he’d remembered? What if it’s only a reminder of how he’s not really real? 

He’s about to suggest that maybe he should get back to Klaus, because the flickering feeling is only increasing, when Five gestures to the chair opposite him. 

Oh, right. Ben sits. 

“How much did you see?” Five asks. His gaze is scrutinizing, curious, yet he still manages to look uninterested, hands folded in his lap and posture loose. “Everything, I presume?”

They’re cutting right to the point, then. Another firsts when it comes to sibling reunions-- no one’s ever thought about how long he was alone with Klaus, watching. 

Although perhaps they’re better for it. The violation of privacy, though Ben tries to respect codes, has always made him feel a little guilty. He looks down. 

“Not everything.” And then, because Five hadn’t hit him over the head with the butter knife earlier, “Delores seems nice.”

Five actually smiles this time. It’s not huge, no teeth, but it’s real, none of the cockiness or dangerous edge he seems unable to shed these days. “She was.”

“Do you think she would have liked me?” Ben finds himself asking. It’s a ridiculous question, and Five squints at him, rightly so, as if trying to decipher whether or not he’s being mocked. Whatever it is that he finds in Ben’s face must satisfy him, though, because he nods sharply. 

“I think she would have found you admirable. She did, in fact. From what I told her at least.”

“You talked about me?”

Too far, apparently; Five’s expression shutters and goes glassy. He stares over Ben's shoulder. “We had a lot of time alone.” 

And it’s funny, Ben thinks. Because this is the moment where most of his siblings-- he’s seen it play out over and over again, from corners of rooms and empty couch spots—would get flustered. Wouldn’t know what to say. It was the ultimate paradox of their family, really. This scenario, this question, this smallest of statements. 

_We had a lot of time alone._

And even though Ben has watched it over and over again, would think that he’s watched it enough to have it figured out, he still watches it now once again as it plays out within his own mind, too; a spectator to his own dissonance. 

One part of him, the part that looks at Five and still sees a stranger, tells Ben that this is too much. This is too private, it’s too painful, it’s too alienating. He can’t possibly relate to the radical, ridiculous experience of living through decades of an apocalypse alone, can he? No, he can’t talk about this with Five. None of them can. 

But a second, smaller, more hopeful part of him, who sees his _brother_ beneath the calculating, bored stare of this fifty year old teenager, reminds him that he also spent thirteen years alone. Reminds him that Luther spent four years alone on the moon, that Klaus spent over a decade with his drugs as a shroud. Reminds him of Allison, with her fame and rumours that were never enough. Of Vanya with her isolation, that she never wanted but never left, either, and of Diego with his angry idealism and the boiler room that he calls home. 

Five’s pain is his own, but he isn’t _alone_ in it. 

But Ben, for all that he wasn’t a poet before he died, has very little way with words anymore. So he doesn’t say that. 

Instead, he just says, “Yeah,” quietly enough to be heard, and hopes that it’s enough. 

And then he flickers out. 

\---

(Later, when Klaus is able to bring him back again, Ben sneaks down to the library and relishes the feeling of the books passing through his hands as he collects his own pile in return, for Five. He leaves it on his bed one day when Five’s not home-- a mishmash of books with a tiny little list taped to the top, weathered and worn and in children’s careful, looped handwriting. 

The bottom book in the pile is aptly titled “The Body Keeps the Score.” It’s a book on trauma; one of Ben’s most cherished, and he knows that it’s not subtle, but he hopes that it okay. He’s not sure if Five will read it. 

But he thinks that Five will understand).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all enjoyed. I've already written the next installment in this series so that should be up soon. *finger guns*
> 
> fyi, The Body Keeps the Score is a real book on trauma. It's one of my most rec'd books for anyone for whom it applies (make sure you have support though if you're gonna read it), along with a book called From Surviving to Thriving.
> 
> Oh, and the note that Ben leaves on Five's stack of books is actually a book rec list that he started after Five left, and continued adding to up until his own death. There are 37 books total on that list, starting with 1. Where the Wild Things Are and 2. a generic self-help book on overcoming pride, and ending with 37. Romeo and Juliet , because if there's one thing Ben has learned living in the Hargreeves family home, it's that sinking your own ship does very little to make someone else's float again.

**Author's Note:**

> https://pin.it/rle377ukkefpka
> 
> ^ Five's wagon
> 
> maybe I'll fix this up later. I'm hoping to add a second chapter too if folks are interested because I definitely wrote more between these two and also I love them?? 
> 
> hmu at wewalkadifferentpath on tumblr or @adifferentpath on twitter. thanks for reading folks <3
> 
> oh also as will be the case for all of the fics in this series the title is from Possibility by Lykke Li


End file.
